“But—” he began.
“I didn’t know how to find you. To tell you how I really felt. You never told me your last name. I couldn’t find you online or anything.”
Douglas sauntered back to Heather. Her neck craned up and followed him as he stepped around the chair. She reached toward him and caressed his arm. He yanked it away as her hand reached the butt of the knife.
“Do you know how long I’ve waited for this moment?” she said. “To tell you how I really feel?”
She listened as she heard what sounded like knees popping. Or the floorboards yielding. She didn’t know or care as the blade tore through the zip ties on her ankle. She heard a faint whimper arise.
“Who was this person that promised we would be together? The one you mentioned. Is it someone we both know?” Her fist balled up and remained steady as he cut through the ties on her other ankle. She bit her lip when the blade nicked her flesh. Douglas jumped to his feet and scrambled around. He leaned on her wrists with his hands, the hilt of the knife bore down on her free hand.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry,” he begged. “I’ll never hurt you. You hear me? I promise I’ll never hurt you.”
He howled as he gripped his balls. She watched the color drain out from his cheeks as he fell to his shoulder. Her shin burned from the impact as her eyes followed the knife skittering across the floor.
He grumbled and yelped as he held his breath, and his sack. Fire blushed his cheeks as his locomotive breath heaved his chest. Heather’s foot swung wildly towards the knife. Her foot stomped on the blade as his fingers wrapped around the hilt. He ascended towards her.
“You fucking cunt! I’ll fuck your dead skull!”
Heather’s eyes danced wildly as she gauged her tormentor. A distant memory pierced her vision as she remembered his Facebook avatar. The skull made from a cowering man. Fuck your skull. She forced her eyes closed and kissed Douglas. If she had something in her stomach, she knew it would have spewed like a fire hose.
“It was an accident! I swear! I didn’t mean to—”
Fireflies filled Heather’s vision as she rammed her head into his nose with every bit of strength in her body. Blood rambled down the sides of her nose as she fought the swirling stars. His eyes rolled upwards as he dropped to the floor.
“Fuck your own skull, asshole!”
Hyperventilation threatened Heather’s consciousness as her foot scraped the knife closer. As it neared the chair leg, muscles spasmed and kicked it away. The butt bounced off the lump on Douglas’ crooked nose. His eyelids fluttered.
Heather pushed off from the chair and lunged. Her other wrist popped and twisted unnaturally, still bound to the chair. A canine yelp echoed in the empty room as she collapsed. She scuttled back and reached for the knife once more with her foot. Douglas’ limp hand clenched.
Heather kicked the knife into her waiting hand as Douglas slowly pushed up on his.
She howled as she cut the twisted bands from her even more twisted wrist. The tip of the blade pushed under her skin. A bolt of lightning shot up her leg and she screamed.
She gasped in disconnected horror as she stared at the roofing hammer, the claw buried down to the shaft, in her calf muscle.
“She said you would have a fight in you,” Douglas huffed. Heather rolled onto her back as he crawled over her. Her mind raced through who’s, what’s, when’s, and why’s. Who was this she? What did she want, and when would she come? And last, but not least, why?
His breath reeked of rot as he respired onto her chest. His eyes narrowed as hers threatened to push out from her eyelids. Fireflies returned to her vision as he loomed above. His grin revealed every tooth in his maw. They were stained, yellowed, jagged, unlike the perfect smile that captivated her at Gary’s. Before the crazy started.
Douglas pressed his bare hand against her lips and nose. Blood poured down her throat as her lungs pumped without relief. No air conceded through his clamped fingers and into her.
The light of dawn began to fade as her arm jerked upwards. The nauseating pop jolted her wrist as her grip on the hilt remained. A chill gnashed her teeth as cloth tore against steel. A solitary gag gripped her stomach like a vice grip as a wet warmth covered her hand.
Douglas’ eyes widened as his grip slackened.
Heather finally caught her breath through his fingers as a single tear fell from his eye.
His hand slipped away, and he collapsed on top of her. She peered over his shoulder and stared at the crimson blade that passed clear through his body and tore through his shirt.
CHAPTER 12
DAWN
I
Blades of sunlight pierced the vertical blinds as the consistent beep of the IV drip chimed beside her. Kelsey clung tight to Heather’s hand as Detective Lynch continued.
“Are you sure?” he said. Heather nodded.
“He had nothing to do with it.”
“Then who was the ‘she’ Mr. Baggio was referring to?”
Heather didn’t answer as she turned to Rick, Jackie, Emma, and Beatrice standing at the foot of the Hill-Rom. Each face vacant, curious, empathetic. They knew the answer as well as she did.
“I don’t know. He never told me.”
Lynch snapped his gum and closed his notepad. She winced as a glint of light caught his gold badge on his chest and clamped her eyes.
“I spoke with Doctor Bobis. You’ll be here for a few more days for observation. He also told me the staff psychiatrist is waiting for the Okay to talk with you. I’ll let you get some rest. See you in a few days,” Lynch said and grinned. Heather turned away as he exited the room.
Her close circle of friends remained still and silent. Heather considered her friend’s disbelief, confusion, and sympathy choke the stillness. It was a strain she didn’t expect. A humiliation she never imagined.
“Does he know?” Heather broke the silence. The women looked to each other as Rick stepped forward. His eye still swollen and his nose with a fighter’s crook.
“We still don’t know where he is.”
“Besides,” Jackie interrupted. “Who’s going to tell him? He’s burned every bridge behind him. Best to just leave him in the past. You have more important things move on from.”
Heather nodded as a grin washed over her face. “Move on? Who’s driving? I’d kill for a Diet and some pizza.”
II
Three months had passed since Heather was released from Victory Memorial Hospital. The staples in her calf were out after two weeks, and the physical therapy lasted another two. The Xanax Doctor Seabrook finally prescribed, along with Valium, eased the nightmares that haunted her dreams. Every night, she would wake up screaming, sweating, panting as the image of D-Bag, Douglas Baggio if you please, eyes wide, silent, gasping, dying atop her. A half of this, and a quarter of that, and the dark horrors washed into colorful vistas of the peace and serenity she once knew. After two weeks, the brightness of hope became so indelible in her mind, she stored the amber bottles deep in her junk drawer. When Seabrook asked her if she needed a refill on either or both, her light beamed like a radiant sun as she declined.
He was astonished at the progress she had made in her sessions. Going from five days a week to three to one in no time. Though she was still unemployed, and a local tragic celebrity that couldn’t get hired because of the notoriety, she hoped, she knew, the future was hers to claim.
Even she was surprised at her accomplishments. It’s not every day you’re kidnapped, mentally tortured and escape captivity.
Douglas’ death, on the other hand, was as real as the scars across her wrists. Father Ruben had been to her apartment every day since he found out. Absolution was the least he was able to do for her. The food shopping, cooking and cleaning up every night after dinner made her feel the love she didn’t allow herself to enjoy in too many years. And she made sure that Ruben would never feel unappreciated or used. She bought the cigarettes, rented the Video-On-Demand movies when he stayed longer than she though
t he would, and returned to the church as a youth group counselor.
“Papa Ruben, after everything I went through, who’s better at getting these kids to have some real faith. No offense.”
“None taken,” he smiled.
Emma returned home after two weeks. Heather nearly pulled a Kelsey when Emma wept at every joke she tried to make about her situation.
“Listen, you, you’re not here drying my eyes and wiping my nose, and I’m not wiping yours. Woman-up!”
The day Emma left, the waterworks wouldn’t cease. She handed Heather a photograph before she drove off.
“If you’re feeling upset and you don’t want to talk, just look at this picture. Will you?”
Heather turned it over and saw her, Kelsey, Beatrice, and Emma dressed in their silken white, graduation gowns and caps. The warm, early summer sun bathed them in radiant light and compassion, the perfume of fresh cut grass and trampled soil permeated their senses. Heather welcomed the delight of the spectators as the Dean of the State University of Plattsburgh congratulated the graduating class. He quoted Franz Kafka when he concluded with, “A mind is like a parachute, it doesn’t work if it isn’t open.” Just like the heart.
“And when you’re better, I mean really better, I’ll book the biggest girls-only vacation this side of the Mississippi!”
“I’d like that,” Heather smiled. Real emotion poured from her eyelids as she watched her friend drive away.
“Fuck me! You’re really buying into that goodie-goodie bullshit? Let’s get us a drink so you can woman-up,” Kelsey mocked. Heather looked at her. The smile not leaving her face.
“You know what, Kels? I’m good. I really am. And I love you too.”
Heather wasn’t sure if it was the no desire for alcohol, the new shampoo or new outlook, but she certainly appreciated the way her hair shined and bounced, and her skin glowed. Only the slightest blemish of bruise remained where her head smashed his nose. And that was alright. It was a battle scar. Earned. Survived.
Rick noticed her radiance. He was the only one. After all, he paid attention to the smallest details in everything he observed. She loved him for it. Like a brother. That was certain. And neither one of them would have it any other way.
The numbness in her calf hadn’t dissipated. Perhaps yanking the hammer claw from her leg before the paramedics arrived wasn’t the smartest thing she had done. Hobbling down the stairs, falling through the apartment building front doors was a little better. Leaping into the oncoming traffic of Fifth Avenue and Eighty-First, not so good. The yellow-cab that didn’t see her nearly clipped her as she hailed for someone, anyone to stop.
Ah, New York.
If it weren’t for the overly-cautious, elderly Rabbi creeping along Fifth in his dated, Honda Odyssey, the flipping-mad tractor-trailer driver behind him might not have seen her and turned Heather into street-pizza.
Kelsey had discussed with Heather about leaving Brooklyn to move closer to Beatrice. All things considered, over-population, unyielding traffic on the Expressway and lingering odors from the decades-closed landfill, Staten Island was quieter, calmer than Gotham. And the sidewalks were in considerably better shape.
Physical therapy had turned her limp into a fanciful gait that she wished she was able to swagger at an earlier age, as her feline fluidity was as refined as a baboon’s waddle.
What if all of this was a lie? What if none of this new world was real? The healing, the forgiveness?
It was real. It had to be.
But what if the ghosts of her captor, her sorrow, her self-effacing denial of happiness, was waiting for the emotionless flash of loneliness?
In the quiet moments, the momentary solitude as the eyes roll under weighted lids, and the euphoric buoyancy that only slumber brings, the voice within would doubt her, mock her peaceful respite. And during those moments, she would seek the answers she was afraid to ask for. The dissolution of security, when lost, never truly returns. In the end, the meaning of the event can only be changed by the victim. But the event itself will always remain. Her toes tingled as she slipped on her sneakers. They had ever since she came home from the hospital. Surgery was an option, but she decided to postpone it until it became unbearable. She never told her friends that it was her reminder to never relent, never surrender. And that was Okay.
The numbness had subsided over the last few weeks. Or she simply became used to it, accepted it. And that was Okay. After all, her gait was sexier now. And she had no desire to use it to her advantage for a long, long while.
Therapy, both physical and mental, had succeeded in their efforts to heal her from within and without. But as with most catastrophic injuries, both physical and mental, the injured will never return to full capacity. And that was Okay. The road ahead was long and unexplored, but bright and welcoming. She had waited in the crossroads for far too long, and she was finally ready to move on. She was grateful that Beatrice had finally broken the ice.
“Come on. Let’s go to Dickinson’s. I miss you. The old you. Well, not all the old you. You know what I mean,” Beatrice said.
“No boys. None. Got it?” Heather said. She watched herself in her bedroom mirror when she affirmed. She nodded and smirked at her reflection. Beatrice would not contest. Returning to Dickinson’s was equivalent to putting on an old sweatshirt. It was familiar, comfortable, experienced, knew when to come out, and when to return to the closet.
She drew her raven locks from under her low-cut, sable blouse and peered at her reflection once more. Her hands found their way to her hips as she twisted to and fro, admired the goddess in the mirror, and spun away.
Her heeled boots echoed through the Industry City loft as she padded towards the door. She reached for her Vera Wang purse, a purchase she never regretted and checked for her keys. She noticed the indelible mark on her wrist. The purse fell to the floor as she returned to the bedroom.
Flicking through the jewelry box atop the dresser, she scowled. A slight gasp filled her lungs and she dashed towards the closet.
The boxes covered with spare comforters and linens held her quarry. Though it had been a little less than two years, she remembered exactly where it was.
Two years, she wondered. Had it been that long? It seemed like yesterday and a lifetime ago at the same time.
Tossing the blankets with one hand, the other reached into the folded flap of the box and snaked through picture frames, T-shirts, and over-stuffed paper bags.
In one fluid movement, she withdrew the Pandora bracelet and wrapped it around her scarred wrist. She raised it to her face and admired the charms that glinted in the setting sunlight.
Her heart thumped, and a spasm snapped her wrist. Closing her eyes, Heather breathed and counted.
Five.
“What’s in the past, stays in the past.”
Four.
“I am strong. I am alive.”
Three
“I love you, but I love myself more.”
Two.
“And I will always hold onto the light from within on my darkest of days.”
“One.”
TO BE CONTINUED IN
THE CONDEMNED
A MOMENT OF YOUR TIME
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BONUS READING
There is no doubt you have some questions. Grace, Baz, Chase… They can only be answered by reading The Accursed, the first novel in the Victim of Fate series. Available June 5th only on Amazon.
As a bonus for downloading this book, turn the page…
PART ONE
FORSAKEN
PROLOGUE
THE END?
This is the way we die. Cold, alone, terrified.
Forgive me, a cry screamed from within. A froth of blood oozed past Chase’s lips as he contended for each fleeting breath.
This could not be the end. It wasn’t meant to be. There was supposed to be more. There was supposed to be understanding, purpose, reconciliation. Fuck all those assholes who said life was meant to be challenging. A challenge is met. But constantly shit on, is another story.
This should be the end. But was there anything left to prevail over? To fail at? To love? To live for?
This cannot be the end. He had to find her, tell her everything he couldn’t. Touch her skin and her heart. Look into her oceanic green eyes. Kiss away the tears, wipe away the pain, wash away the sins.
Somewhere in the far recesses of his mind, he remembered the sunrise behind her, the amber and gold that bathed her in a halo of majesty and forced his spirit to soar aloft and read in the heavens the wisdom, strength, and beauty of the ages. Her soul connected with his as she unveiled a whole new world unto him. If only he would have revisited that one fateful morning, might he not have clothed himself in the habiliments of mortality?
As the sun must rise, it must also set.
But not today. Please. One more day, another chance, another way, another glimmer of hope.
Hope.
Hope was something that eroded throughout his short life. It was something he threw away, along with the optimism, dignity, and faith.
Did he abandon his faith so long ago only for it to reemerge in his weary mind, broken heart, and tortured soul?
The rancid tastes of rotten meat, curdled milk, decomposed fruit and the bitter flavor of iron coated his tongue. An unbearable fire seized his lungs as he swallowed each fleeting breath. The dark alley closed in under amorphous shapes of blues, blacks, silvers and crimson. The only discernible mass he could focus on was the hand before him, unmoving, save for his twitching index finger. Senses deadened as he listened for the thrashing wings, he imagined, of Azrael, the Angel of Death.
The Estranged Page 14